Logic, Balance and Tolerance
by G96 Saber
Summary: A fiercely intelligent child enters the Wizarding World. He is most definitely not what was expected. The questions he asks, however, alter Wizarding Britain forever. What really are the Dark Arts? What are the limits of Magic? Is there any logic to Pureblood Supremacy? Is a balance possible?
1. A Wizarding Story

Logic, Balance and Tolerance

A Wizarding Story

* * *

I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

1980

Vernon Dursley was xenophobic. That is to say, he despised, or was at least wary of, anything that didn't fit into his rather limited world view. Or as he would so eloquently proclaim, anything not 'normal'.

He rejected many 'recent' ideals: the concept of 'working women', the belief of equality between races (he was sure to keep that particular belief quiet - Vernon Dursley was not a fool, at least not in the traditional sense of the word); the list of outdated ideology Dursley clung to could fill a book, such was his hatred.

This often irrational fear stemmed from his Father; who lived at a time of social upheaval in British society. Vernon Dursley's Father disliked the lack of stability diversification begot on his homeland, and so, he promised that he would condemn 'unnecessary' change wherever it was found. Vernon himself, keen to gain acceptance from his strict, unforgiving Father, quickly adopted the same socio-political policies.

Unfortunately, (at least for the Dursleys) few others agreed with their ideology. And so, an unstoppable change swept throughout the land, minorities that were previously oppressed obtained power that, while not yet truly equal to the majority, became significant enough to anger certain conservative members of the community.

That is why Vernon was, understandably (at least in his opinion), horrified when he first heard stories, from his wife of all people, of men and women waving sticks around and saying 'gibberish' words - magic, his wife had called it. Dursley was, of course, even more worried when he was informed that his sister-in-law was one such 'abnormal' person.

The final straw was, however, plucked almost eight years ago; in the early hours of the morning.

_What terrible tragedy occurred_, you may wonder.

_Did an evil magic user murder his wife?_

_Was his house burnt down in magical flames?_

These various hypotheses are quite respectable, and if one such tragedy were to transpire, it would understandable for Vernon Dursley to be wary of magic. However, no such catastrophe arose.

At least, not for Vernon Dursley.

Instead, a (literally) magical old man, affectionately named Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, left an equally - in a metaphorical sense - magical baby on a doorstep. Not just any doorstep, of course, that would be silly. This baby was left on the porch of the xenophobic Vernon Dursley and his wife, the equally xenophobic (and awfully named, as she most definitely did not represent her namesake) Petunia Dursley.

_Why was such a child left on such a doorstep on such a night? _

The child was left because, as far as Albus Dumbledore could recall, Petunia Dursley was the last remaining close blood relative (more specifically, Aunt) of Hadrian James Potter - more commonly know as Harry James Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived.

* * *

1987

Snow fluttered gently in the air, the wind pushing and pulling at each individual flake in tandem. The night was calm, the only disturbance being the steady rippling of the trees in the breeze, and of course the light snowfall that wrapped the ground in a fluffy white blanket.

The snow-capped houses of Privet Drive stood unmoving against Mother Nature, each semi-identical home a sanctuary against the relatively unforgiving weather. As the cold buffeted the houses of Privet Drive; the occupants snuggled further into their beds, thankful for their comfortable western lives.

However, there was, unfortunately, a single exception to this rule. In each house (as they were built to be almost identical) a single 'room' existed where, in winter, the average temperature was not significantly higher than the freezing temperature's outside.

Usually, this space would be used for the storage of objects.

Not in Number Four Privet Drive.

Instead, a small, sable-haired child resided in the freezing room - more commonly known as 'the Cupboard Under the Stairs'. The room, if it could even be called as such, was pitifully small; even a pre-teen would find it difficult to maneuver in the floor-space without colliding with either the diminutive bed in one corner of the cupboard, or the positively ancient chest of drawers directly parallel to said bed. Both pieces of furniture were steadily but surely falling apart.

Anyway, back to the poor child in the room.

This boy was known as Harry James Potter. Unlike the rest of the household of Number Four Privet Drive, Harry was not particularly strange. Unusual, most definitely - his iridescent green eyes and relatively (for a child) regal appearance set him apart from the crowd physically. Much to the secret anger of his cousin (one Dudley Dursley, a monstrously overweight bully), who, despite assurances by his parents (that Harry didn't look _normal_), _really_ wanted facial features akin to his cousin. Pity the young Dursley loved food even more than he loved attention - if only just.

Mentally, the green-eyed child (Harry, _not _Dudley) also excelled; this began to be apparent immediately after Harry's - and therefore also Dudley's - first year of St. Grogory's Primary School. Harry was proclaimed as a child genius, much to the chagrin of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, both of whom _punished _Harry rather _severely _for both cheating _and _'being an aloof, intellectual freak' as Vernon had so hatefully surmised. The young Potter could've purposely lowered his school marks and overall intelligence, however, an inbuilt sense of pride (and a desire to be the exact opposite of his relatives) prevented such an action. Harry enjoyed the mortification on his aunt and uncles face whenever anyone mentioned their 'genius nephew'.

His 'guardians' (Harry would sneer whenever he mentioned their title in relation to himself) - Vernon and Petunia Dursley - told him he was a 'freak', for reasons he did not yet understand. Harry believed this to be untrue. Practically every piece of literature the small boy had ever read celebrated what Harry _knew _he actually was: different. He had quickly concluded that being unique was a good, no, a _great _thing.

Harry wanted to know exactly how different he was.

You see, unusual phenomena often took place around Harry. A book flew into his hand when he wanted it, a bully tripped over when he insulted him; the list of observable phenomena was quite conspicuous to a boy of Harry Potter's intellect and observational skills.

This was why the green-eyed Potter was sitting on his bed, legs crossed and eyes closed. Harry deduced that he possessed some form of inner power, therefore, meditation was a logical method to consciously draw the phenomena out.

Happy with his current state of empty-mindedness, his eyes snapped open; twin orbs of emerald framed by long eyelashes. Ebony black hair cast his eyes in shadow. A delicate, pale hand stretched out parallel to the floor, vaguely pointing toward a cracked hand mirror that stood atop the chest of drawers.

In Harry Potter's brilliant mind, a metaphorical video was playing. In reality the mirror stood still, in Harry's mind however, it ignored the laws of physics and floated steadily toward his hand.

In reality, the Potter's eyes narrowed in concentration, and he willed the mirror to move toward him.

...

Slowly, and if Harry didn't know better, almost teasingly; the hand mirror moved forward an inch, scraping against the chest of drawers it stood on.

The sound was both breath-taking and heart stopping.

An odd feeling bubbled up from inside of the young genius, encasing his entire being in power. Suddenly, his forehead prickled uncomfortably, and the power... no, _his _power, dissolved into oblivion. Harry, scowled - the failed release of power felt fundamentally wrong.

His pale hand brushed over his forehead, investigating the previously itchy area. Harry's hand grazed the only facet of his physical appearance he disliked - a jagged scar, shaped akin to a lightning bolt, placed just above his right eyebrow.

The young Potter frowned, he'd felt something stir inside him, but as soon as it manifested, the strange power dissipated again - _'almost as if it hit some kind of mental block'_, he thought. The young genius pondered this strange turn of events,_ 'perhaps it was an anomaly... hmm, - only one way to find out'. _

Once again, Harry attempted to telekinetically pull the mirror toward him, unfortunately, the object barely scraped forward just another inch. In a corner of his mind, (as the rest of his thoughts were stampeding onward at what can only be compared to light-speed) the green-eyed Potter noted that, through exertion of this odd power, sweat had collected on his brow and he was beginning to feel a faint mental strain,_ 'no matter, it'll probably become easier with time,'_ he theorized.

Redirecting his focus to the thing preventing him from effectively using his power, the young Potter quickly decided the only way to overcome this 'block' would be to overpower it. So, Harry attempted to summon the mirror once again, ignoring the mental strain the power cost him. The hand-mirror inched forward again, but instead of letting his power dissipate against the block, he focussed on the block itself. With a mental heave, Harry condensed his will and rammed it against the barrier, ignoring the mirror, which obviously ceased to move.

Harry Potter's will was strong, incredibly so. So strong in fact, that after a mere five seconds, the block _shattered_.

...

Power.

That is all Harry felt for the longest second of his life. His skin thrummed with energy, and his mind was clouded with euphoria. His vision appeared to be blocked, white covered his eyes. On a_ completely unrelated note,_ all electrical equipment within fifty metres of a certain green-eyed genius simultaneously fried.

Unfortunately for Harry, this state of euphoria was not to last.

His scar, for the lack of a better word, exploded. Harry cried out in pain, his body shaking in agony. An unholy scream echoed in the young Potter's cupboard, simultaneously, an ominous black mist condensed just in front of the small boy. Though his vision was still rather lacklustre, it was impossible to miss the gas-like (and vaguely humanoid) entity dissolve into nothingness before his very eyes.

Slowly, Harry's body began to recover from his strange ordeal. His shaking stopped, and his breathing returned to normal.

For a few seconds, everything was silent.

A minute passed, in which Harry sat in silence, pondering whether the noise had woken his guardians. Another minute passed. Slowly, the green-eyed Potter exhaled a breath of air he was subconsciously holding in. Miraculously, neither Vernon nor Petunia Dursley were awake.

Eagerly, his gaze returned to the mirror, still perched atop the drawers. A small smile graced Harry's lips, and his hand stretched out before him. The young Potter once again pictured the reflective object moving toward him. He willed it so.

The hand mirror launched forward, much more quickly than any attempt previous. It took a mere two seconds to reach his outstretched hand. Harry grasped it, and his smile turned into a predatory smirk. The green-eyed child glanced at the ceiling, _'And I am one step closer to my revenge'._

The (rather disturbing) smirk morphed into an expression of confusion, as he peered at his reflection in the near darkness of the cupboard under the stairs. Harry would have passed it off as a trick of the light (or more so, the lack of light) if not for the fact the odd phenomena continued to occur.

Harry Potter's hair was rapidly changing colour, at speeds most people would find difficult to follow. Black faded to brown, which brightened to blonde, which faded to grey. Harry could not deduce a pattern in the colour shifting - it was most definitely random.

"Well," The Potter's voice drawled in the dark, "I suppose I have until seven o'clock in the morning to control this... shape-shifting. I have do not wish to attempt to explain this to my _guardians_."

With that, the child genius began the mad rush for control.


	2. Two Months Later

Logic, Balance and Tolerance

Two Months Later

* * *

I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

1987

Petunia Dursley rapped her gaunt fist unnecessarily harshly against the door to the Cupboard Under the Stairs. The aqua-painted wood actually shook slightly with each impact - though that may be more to do with the door's lack of structural integrity, rather than Petunia's strength.

Each knock was punctuated with repeated screeching, "Up! Up! Get up _now_!"

Just as she was about to knock once again, a sable-haired boy promptly opened the door, causing Petunia to overextend herself and to hit thin air rather comically.

"Good morning, Aunt Petunia," Harry Potter drawled from the entrance of the cupboard, his apathetic green eyes staring into Petunia's own pale orbs, "I suppose you want me to make breakfast?"

Petunia almost snarled at his tone, but instead managed a curt nod, her blond-brown hair bobbing slightly in its ponytail, "Of course, and don't take that tone with me, freak! Be thankful we allow you under our roof!"

Harry resisted the urge to smirk at her agitation, and instead wordlessly raised his left eyebrow - somehow, this expression seemed just as mocking as his drawling articulation. After a moments stare-down between the two, in which Petunia became even more irritated to Harry's continual amusement, the Dursley woman cut eye contact, unable to gaze into her nephew's unusual viridian orbs.

Ignoring Petunia's presence entirely, the green-eyed genius paced down the hall, absently noting that it had not altered for as long as his memory stretched.

The entire house (excluding Dudley's bedroom) oozed sterility, generally lacking familial warmth in almost every fashion. The only exception being half a dozen photographs which lined the hallway; in each one, Petunia and Vernon appeared older, and Dudley fatter. Harry was glad he wasn't featured in a single one of them.

Entering the kitchen/living room/dining room area (through another pale blue door, as every wall or door was painted as such), he quickly strode over to the sink and efficiently washed his hands. The young Potter centred himself in the kitchen, then began to make a full English breakfast, as fast as possible without committing a mistake.

Of course, Harry himself would be fortunate if he was given buttered toast to eat, while Dudley and his father vacuumed a frankly obnoxious amount of food into their respective stomachs. While Harry watched, unable to eat more than a single piece of toasted bread.

Meanwhile, Petunia shrewdly observed her nephew cooking from her seat at the table, her relatively small eyes narrowed in a rather unsightly expression.

The child appeared surprisingly alert for a seven year old who had apparently just awoken from his slumber. The boys midnight black hair created a dark halo around his shoulders, and hung over his right eye, eclipsing it from sight. It was an unusual haircut for a seven year old and Petunia hated it.

In her opinion, boys shouldn't have long hair, nor should they enjoy reading as much as they like physical activity.

Truly, Harry Potter was (perhaps consciously?) the absolute opposite of the Dursleys' concept of a 'normal' child.

The pale-eyed Dursley sneered at his clothes - a formless gray tea shirt that was tucked into a pair of jeans so large they required rolling up to prevent them dragging along the floor. A makeshift belt (a piece of ripped cloth) secured his slacks to his hips. Of course Petunia ignored the fact she and her husband were the reason he was wearing such dilapidated clothes in the first place.

Her eyes moved to his hands, and she couldn't quite repress a shiver of fear and disgust. The Potter, knife in hand, was chopping tomatoes on a wooden board at what appeared to be an inhuman pace. His hands danced elegantly, the kitchen knife he wielded sometimes missing his skin by a few millimetres. The knife was a blur of silver in his grasp.

Petunia hated the way he moved, or more specifically, the way he floated. The green-eyed boy rarely made any noise, and each step he made appeared to be precisely measured; in Petunia's opinion, such grace was unnatural, a mockery of the way _normal _people were supposed to walk. Clearly, his abnormality extended further than his physical features.

The room was almost silent, the only exception being the hissing of a pair of frying pans and Petunia's occasional disdainful sniffs (of which Harry found quite amusing). A few minutes later, the semi-silence was broken by the sound of heavy _thuds _emanating from the hallway. A moment later, a bleary-eyed Vernon Dursley burst through the door leading to the hall.

His clothes, a plain grey businesses suit and tie combination, were ruffled and creased as was his equally plain blonde-brown hair, signifying that he'd only recently removed himself from his bed. Abruptly, Dursley smiled as he noticed his wife in the room.

"Good morning Pet," Vernon's moustache (which resembled a walrus' whiskers) twitched in a way that made him appear slightly retarded.

Harry however, saw none of this, as he was focusing on preparing breakfast.

Ignoring the young Potter completely, Vernon waddled to his seat opposite Petunia. The cream-coloured chair creaked almost pitifully as he centred his entire weight on the piece of furniture. The Dursleys watery blue eyes raked over the table - as if expecting food to miraculously appear for him to devour. When the lack of food became apparent, the overweight Dursley glared at his nephew, but made no move to communicate with him.

Dudley Dursley (of whom had been following his father down the stairs) emulated Vernon almost entirely (creaking chair and all) by sitting in between his parents, his back facing the kitchen. The three Dursleys' made conversation while their relative slaved away in the kitchen, not ten feet away from them.

Their focus was so centred on conversation that they didn't notice when Harry dutifully placed their food directly in front of them. The young Potter visibility rolled his eyes, not surprised by his relatives lack of spatial awareness.

"Ahem," The green-eyed child faux-coughed into his hands.

Vernon, Petunia and Dudley all turned toward Harry, various insults on the tips of their tongues.

Before they had the chance to speak however, the seven year old Potter gestured toward their plates, "Your breakfast,"

The three Dursleys' looked down, almost identical expressions of confusion etched on their faces. Rapidly, Vernon's face reddened, realising he'd been made a fool of by his 'freaky' nephew in front of his own family.

"Don't interrupt us next time, freak!" Vernon half-yelled, for lack of anything more significant to criticise.

"Yeah freak!" Dudley parroted.

Unfortunately, instead of hurting his cousins feelings, the repetition only served to amuse Harry further. Neither did he bother to respond to his uncles moronic statement. Instead, he observed them keenly, noting the way Vernon perspired heavily, even in the middle of winter. Once again, he also wondered how he was related to Petunia; they did not share a single physical characteristic - neither hair colour nor eye colour, even their facial features contrasted (notably, Petunia possessed an unusually long neck).

The silence (for the Dursleys' had not yet begun to converse again) was broken by a tinkling and a quiet _thud_.

Vernon's head snapped up from his breakfast, a grin on his rather pudgy face, "Ah, that must be the paper, go fetch it _boy_,"

Obviously, the Dursley' relished treating their relative akin to a slave.

However, this was the _key _moment Harry Potter, child genius and magic user had been waiting for.

"No,"

Once again, the three Dursleys' stared at Harry. Harry stared back, a smirk curved on his lips. The tension in the room heightened to uncomfortable levels.

"What did you just say, _freak_," Vernon's irate voice shattered the gathered silence.

The young Potter turned, his iridescent green eyes (though only one was visible) burning into Vernon's own, less exotic, beady orbs, "I said 'No' Vernon," the lack of the title 'uncle' was not missed by anyone.

Harry continued on, his drawling speech conveying boredom, "Do you want to know _why _I said such a thing, Vernon? Th-"

Clearly, Vernon Dursley's patience abruptly ran dry, as he made a grab for his nephews neck across the table.

"Ahhh!"

Fortunately for Harry, his uncles hand was intercepted by his own knife, which, while floating in mid-air, flipped three hundred and sixty degrees, cutting the sensitive skin between Vernon's index and a middle finger. A few drops of blood spilt onto the off-white table-cloth. The elder Dursley withdrew his hand rapidly, glaring at his 'freaky' nephew from across the tables expanse.

"-is, is why I refused,"

A high-pitched crack was heard as Petunia stood, her chair falling to the ground beneath her.

An insane glint entered her eye, and her speech came through rapid breaths "What did you do you-you _freak_! Th-"

"Silence," Harry Potter's smooth voice transcended his aunts, despite its lack of volume. Everything became silent. The bloodied table-knife continued to hover ominously above the table.

"I manipulated an internal power to levitate a fork," the child genius relished the simultaneous shivers whenever he said the word 'levitate' - though it truly was pathetic.

Vernon however, despised both 'abnormality' and being ordered around - especially in his own house. It was no surprise then, when he built up the courage to swing his meaty fist at his own nephew - despite his apparent power. The fist never hit its target. Harry gestured in Vernon's direction, creating an azure wave of telekinetic energy that left his appendage and plowed into Vernon. Notably, the bloody table-knife did not appear to be effected by the strange force - it continued to levitate near the centre of the table, unmoved. However, Vernon was not so lucky, as the concussive force knocked him off his feet. Morpheus claimed him quickly.

_'Hm, everything is going to plan... for now,' _

For the first time in Harry Potter's life, a new feeling entered his consciousness. Satisfaction and righteousness practically pulsed in his veins; he labelled this new feeling _Justice_, with a little revenge on the side_._

Meanwhile, Dudley gaped at Harry, unsure on what action to take.

Harry turned to his aunt, "Now, _Petunia_," he removed a spiral-bound notebook from his over-sized jeans, a pencil threaded through the plastic binder, "Write everything you know of... magic, (more shivers) and all information relating to my parents,"

He gently placed the notebook on the table.

The young Potter's smirk morphed in an indescribable fashion, curving into an expression far crueller than before, "Now, no _funny businesses_," he purred, referencing one of Vernon's favourite sayings, "I want the truth... and if you don't give it to me..."

Harry flicked his finger under the table, and, _as if by magic_, the table-knife began rotating on its axis. Fortunately, the crimson liquid adorning the blade had already dried. It spun quicker and quicker, until the knife appeared to be a crimson-silver blur in the air.

The Potter and the Dursley woman locked eyes, ignoring the awful buzzing the rotating blade made. Slowly, glaring, crimson red seeped into Harry's eyes, reminding his aunt of the blood on the table-knife, "Understand?"

Petunia nodded so swiftly, Harry was fairly certain she would've broken her neck if she'd moved the unusually long limb any faster.

"Good,"

As if he'd not just thrown a man across the room, the (once again) green-eyed genius calmly rose from his seat and glided toward the hallway.

Harry opened the door and turned to face his relatives, however, instead of speaking, the young Potter merely held out a pale hand. Almost immediately, his uncle's wallet removed itself from the front pocket it was stored in, and floated over to his outstretched hand. Dudley and Petunia gaped.

"And by the way Dudley, I'm taking your second bedroom,"

With that last remark, Harry Potter closed the door on an awful chapter of his life, literally and metaphorically. The sable-haired boy slumped against the hallway door, shaking from mental strain - never had he used his powers so intensively.

"MUUUUM!"

He still managed a smirk at his moronic cousins overreaction.


	3. Diagon Alley

Logic, Balance and Tolerance

Diagon Alley

* * *

I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

1987

Harry Potter grinned, scrutinizing himself (rather vainly) in a large, black-bordered mirror. Physically, very little had changed in the last week. His ebony tresses still hung loosely over his right eye, leaving a single viridian orb visible; its blazing chromaticism a splash of colour against the pale alabaster of his skin and the deep black his heavily lidded eyes.

Despite his appalling living conditions, the young Potter was rather tall for his age - this was the product of a nutritious diet and frequent exercise, born of a desire to become the exact anti-thesis of the Dursleys. Of course, Harry's guardians made a point of barely feeding him. So, every night, since the age of six, he _liberated _consumables from the kitchen fridge. Nobody noticed, he was the only one who ever even used the fridge, after all.

Mentally, Harry was happier than he had ever been before. No longer was he forced to degrade himself as a slave to his relatives; he had _conquered _those that had oppressed him. Both physically and mentally, he'd outmatched them. In the Dursley home, magic made might.

Though, Harry's victory affected more than just his home life. Dudley's bullying gang ceased to hold any power over him. He could make _friends_, real friends, not just brutes to hide behind. The past seven years had been lonely for the young Potter; try as he might to suppress the ache for companionship, the craving for friends to trust (though said trust would be long-earned) ached in his gut, a constant reminder of his unfortunate circumstances.

The green-eyed child's lips curved into a frown, as he brushed a pale finger against his angular cheekbones. His memory of the night just over two months ago, in which he unlocked his shape-shifting powers, was rather vague but one thing (aside from the horrifying gas-like entity) stood out. His physical features had altered in the time between the moment the block was broken and when the random shifting began - not quite significantly, but enough to be noticeable. Much of the childish fat that clung to both his cheeks and his jaw had disappeared. His nose had morphed into a slightly different shape. This was rather worrying, as he was unsure if his 'original' face _was _actually his, or if someone had altered his physical characteristics sometime earlier in his life.

In fact, having no definite knowledge of his real face, whatever it happened to be, was quite disheartening - especially for a boy who took such pride in his appearance.

Harry shook his head, ridding himself of his troublesome thoughts. He turned away from the mirror; almond-shaped eyes sweeping over Dudley's... no, _his _bedroom. Consistent with the rest of the house, each wall was painted a soft blue (absently, Harry noted that he would have to change that, the light blue was _ghastly_) and the rusty hues of the light of dawn filtered in from a large window accented by cream-coloured blinds. A brand-new, black sheeted bed stood in one corner of the room, opposite an equally contemporary wardrobe. A desk was situated directly parallel to said wardrobe. Each piece of furniture held a reddish-brown glow, common in expensive mahogany wood. Vernon's wallet had been quite full.

Slowly, as he was not yet fully awake, Harry glided over to the desk and sat in the only chair in the room - a high backed armchair, custom made for smaller pre-teen physiology. It was ordered it specifically, as the piece of furniture was inordinately expensive - it would also have to be replaced relatively frequently, as the green-eyed child would rapidly outgrow it.

The lavish extravagance in which Harry had decorated his new bedroom incensed his uncle - it _was _Vernon's money he was spending, after all. That was the point. The bedroom, and every object inside it, was a symbol of power. Or to be more precise, a symbol of Harry's power over the Dursleys. The spending of Vernon's money merely compounded the effect.

If Harry were honest with himself, which he was, he would also admit that he took childish (and slightly cruel) glee in spending his old tormentors money.

The young Potter's visible eye narrowed as he looked upon the mahogany worktop; aside from a single black book, an A3 sized journal, it was empty. The journal itself was rather handsome, if a book could be described as such, it's leather bindings appeared to be glowing a deep obsidian as the first ray's of the sun hit it's cover.

The contents of the small book (copied from Petunia's notes) were incredibly important, at least to Harry. It contained a written recording of a significant part of the young Potters' identity. Evidence of a heritage once lost: magic - a mysterious, often hereditary power, with the potential to cleave the oceans, heal the dying and - possibly - prevent death itself.

An entire society, hidden away from the non-magical world. A civilisation with its own culture, pride and problems. The book mentioned a grand school - a castle - named _Hogwarts _and a worryingly draconian government denominated _The Ministry of Magic_.

Even more importantly, the journal also contained a description of his parents; _James Potter_ - a hazel-eyed, messy-haired magical noble whose chosen profession happened to be an 'auror'. As far as Harry could tell, an 'auror' was the equivalent to a non-magical detective.

His mother, _Lily Potter_, was an equally interesting character. A crimson-haired, fiery-tempered genius, who'd grown up with her sister in a large town named Cokeworth. According to Petunia, she had become some sort of magical researcher. Of course, the bitter Dursley woman knew very little of her sister or her brother-in-law. The only reason she'd known as much as she had was because Lily had attempted to correspond with her in an endeavour to regain their lost sisterly friendship. It had evidently failed.

However, the contents of the journal were not all positive, far from it in fact. Petunia wrote of a man, a 'Dark Lord', (Harry found such wording to be interesting, and potentially troublesome) known as 'Lord Voldemort'. Supposedly, Voldemort was the magical equivalent of a terrorist, and (as per usual terrorist behavior) went on a magical killing spree that struck fear into the hearts of Magical Britain.

According to Petunia, this 'Lord Voldemort' murdered his parents and then attempted to kill him too. When he was merely a year old. Obviously, the Dark Lord failed. The reason for Voldemort's failure was that, apparently, Harry somehow 'vanquished' (in those specific words) the Dark Lord. Personally, he found such a concept ludicrous, for rather obvious reasons. In his mind, it was far more likely that his parent's enacted some form of sacrificial enchantment (or spell, Harry was unsure of the correct terminology) to save their child's life.

Dismissing his thoughts, Harry instead practised using a sixth sense he had discovered, a faculty the young Potter christened as 'magical sense'. The child genius took a deep breath, before immersing his being in magic, both him own and the innate power emitted by matter itself. Heat encased his mind. Simultaneously, he imagined himself stretching out, encompassing a larger area.

Suddenly, Harry could feel the entire room. Everything, _everything _was touched by magic; from the smallest dust particle to the single plant - a peace lily - in the corner of the room. It enshrouded every single particle of every piece of matter. Inside it, around it... binding it? The young genius did not yet know.

_'As far as I can tell Magic is necessary for existence', _Harry thought. Even beings without the ability to generate and manipulate magic - muggles - Petunia had called them, had some magic.

Withdrawing his magic into himself, the young Potter sighed, as soon as he did so, his sixth sense immediately disappeared. Eventually, he wanted to keep the magical field up constantly. He would never be caught unaware if he could see three hundred and sixty degrees around him.

Harry's chair made not a sound as it scrapped against the dark hued carpet. The Young Potter paced toward the bedroom window, his mood taking a turn for the (even) worse. The child genius brushed the pale blinds to the side, ignoring the tinkling the fabric/plastic synthesis made as he peered onto Privet Drive. Emptiness greeted him. The sun barely peaked over the horizon, evoking an angelic cascade of colour that tinted the atmosphere various warm shades. Red, yellow and orange wove together in a breathtaking torrent of iridescence.

Harry Potter took a deep breath, feeling his fury waver at the resplendent scene. He leaned against window sill, scrutinizing Privet Drive itself. Each house appeared to be almost identical, down to the colour schemes used to decorate them, the only exception being the gardens, of which the residents of Privet Drive were constantly competing over.

The repetition of the houses reminded the Potter of his anger, his anger at man who left him with abusive relatives. _Albus Dumbledore_. Petunia knew little of him, though what she was aware of was... worrying, at least for the sable-haired child. Unless the Magical World had shifted within the last decade, Albus Dumbledore was considered the most important figure in Magical Britain, both politically and magically. A man loved for his defeat of the Dark Lord 'Grindelwald', his pro-muggleborn views (whatever that was, Petunia had very little information on the word) and for his stand as a leader against Voldemort.

This was the man Harry Potter wanted to ruin. Leaving a magical child with magic-hating guardians was unforgivable. He would hold his grudge until the end of his days.

But he was getting ahead of himself, baby steps first.

_Diagon Alley_, the largest magical shopping centre in Wizarding Britain, would be the first step.

* * *

In the year 1500, Daisy Dodderidge ordered the construction of a public house that would, in her exact words, 'Serve as a gateway between the non-wizarding world and Diagon Alley'. A mere six months later, (as magic decreased construction time exponentially) she became the first owner and landlady of the (soon to be famous) _Leaky Cauldron_. Almost five hundred years later, the Leaky Cauldron continued to serve its original purpose.

Harry Potter knew none of this, of course. However, he was privy to the location of the famous inn. Hidden away from the eyes of muggles by something called a 'Ward' (using his magical sense, Harry quickly realised a Ward was basically a permanent or semi-permanent spell that affected a large area) the Leaky Cauldron was situated in between an antique bookshop and a run-down block of flats.

That is why Harry Potter stood on the pavement of Charing Cross Road, ignoring the early morning bustle of London. Instead, his sharp (and shape-shifted royal blue) eyes analysed the scene directly opposite his person.

A woman hurried down Charing Cross Road, paying absolutely no attention to those around her. This would not be worth noting at all, if not for the fact she was dressed in such as way that would not be out of place in a _Lord of the Rings_ book. Adorned in flowing green robes that rippled almost organically, she made her way to what Harry knew to be the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Interestingly, the muggles around her did not even notice her existence - their eyes slipped over her form, never focusing.

_'This is definitely the right place_', Harry thought.

The young Potter glanced left and then right, checking for any incoming traffic. Seeing none, he set off across the road at a rapid pace, heading directly to a large black door. Not just any door of course, this was _the _door, the entrance to Harry Potter's future.

A few feet away from his destination, a unique feeling washed over his senses, or to be more specific, his passive magical senses. _'That must be the anti-muggle ward,' _the Potter guessed as he touched the door itself, noting an unnatural smoothness about the wood, another sensation swept over his senses. This time, the magic appeared to be stronger, as Harry could feel its texture without actively sensing magic. Rather expectedly, a good part of the magic slipped past his consciousness - as if it wasn't designed for his physiology. Harry recognized that magic as a ward designed for muggles - most likely an illusion obscuring the Leaky Cauldron. The other part of the ward settled inside him and permeated the air. The young Potter guessed it to be a set of wards preventing magical transport.

Harry gripped the doorknob, a great brass creation that radiated light like a miniature sun set upon the deep black of space, and twisted; his hands appearing tiny and fragile against the copper hue of the handle.

As soon as the door opened, a multitude of the stimuli impacted his senses.

Tom Castellan hummed a pleasant tune as he half-heartedly cleaned a pint glass. He had been the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron for many a decade, and that fact was not likely to change for another few years yet. As the barman, Tom watched as Wizarding Britain turned, the comings and goings of the world playing out before him. He'd witnessed the first moments in which many a prodigious young muggleborn was truly introduced into the Wizarding World. The first moments of _greatness_.

The familiar sound of the door opening pulled him out of his musing, so he looked up to see who he'd encounter today. It was not a sight he was expecting.

A child, a nine year old at most, stood in the doorway. Though the boy's age was in no way the most unusual physical trait he possessed. What first drew Tom's gaze was the child's hair. Snow white hair formed a halo around the boy's shoulders, and a single deep blue eye was visible underneath the child's fringe. Harsh cheekbones, a strong jaw and skin the colour of marble only reinforced the obvious.

For a second, all the occupants of the Leaky Cauldron (though there were few in the early morning) stopped and stared.

The white-haired boy ignored the onlookers, ignoring their existence, and instead walked toward Tom; his long, black and most definitely muggle coat swaying with each step.

The child stopped just a few feet away from the bar.

"Good morning young sir," Tom said, in the most cheerful voice he could must at half past seven in the morning, "What brings you to the Leaky Cauldron this fine morning?"

The boy met Tom's eyes, royal blue searing into deep brown, "I'd like passage into Diagon Alley please,"

"That will be no problem Mr..." Tom replied, inwardly wondering just where the white-haired boy's parents were. However, he had no thoughts of actually asking where his parents were - something about the boy was incredibly intimidating; being in the same room as him felt suffocating, and talking to him only compounded the effect.

"Hadrian Exusia," Was the simple reply.

"I see," Tom replied lamely, while considering how aptly the white-haired boy was named, "Come right this way then,"

Tom made his way out of the dingy pub (Harry, or Hadrian as Tom knew him, following a few steps behind) via what appeared to be a side exit.

It led to a dead end - a red brick wall.

"Tom," The white-haired boy's voice oozed boredom, "This is a dead end,"

Tom did not even bother to contemplate how the boy knew his name - most magical people did. Instead he grinned, eager to see his stoic companions reaction to the unveiling of Diagon Alley, "Wait just a tick Mr. Exusia, I'll show you Diagon Alley!"

With that enthusiastic exclamation, Tom turned toward the wall, pulled out his wand - a thin silver stick, a finely crafted stick, but a stick all the same - and tapped the wall in a few seemingly random places. Immediately after he'd finished, he stepped to the side.

For a second, everything was stared at Harry, and Harry stared at the wall.

Just before the blue-eyed child opened his mouth to mock his elder, a deep _thumbing _vibration rumbled in the tiny courtyard, emanating from the brick wall itself. Abruptly, the vibrations stopped and the wall began to _shift_. Not to just to the side, as a fake wall would; instead, each individual brick parted from the centre, rolling over each other in a race to the far walls.

Harry studiously ignored the majesty of the reducing wall.

Instead, his eyes were set upon the sprawling alley ahead of him - Diagon Alley. Dozens of oddly shaped buildings of various colour schemes (some of which appeared to be held up by magic) lined a beautiful seventeenth century cobblestone street, easily wide enough to support a tank. As it was early in the morning, most shops weren't open and very few wizards were making their way around the alley.

Though the sight was beautiful in its own way, the Alley was clearly a hodgepodge of architecture that created a very inefficient shopping area; this was odd, considering it was supposed to be the largest commercial area in Wizarding Britain. Harry wondered if the wizarding government actually cared about the people they administered - somehow, he doubted it.

However, Harry cared very little for Diagon Alley's curious mystique. He cared about the magic. It practically hummed in the air, sending figurative sparks over his skin. Ambient magic gathered all around Diagon; the fountain of magic each witch and wizard seemed to subconsciously emanate only compounded the already incredible effect.

Briefly, Harry wondered if he was creating as much magic as them, and if it radiated off him as it did the passers by - if it did, he'd have to correct his lack of control, it was unbecoming. He also pondered _why _they were wastefully radiating magic. Maybe it was subconscious? Or, could most witches and wizards not sense their own magic, or perhaps any magic at all? '_If so,_' Harry thought,_ 'I have an advantage, and magical people aren't using their magic effectively._'

All this observation took a mere second to process. No change in expression was visible in Harry's facial features. Tom pouted childishly, which was a rather odd sight, considering that he resembled a wrinkled walnut.

Without taking his eyes off Diagon Alley, Harry spoke, "Thank you Tom, you have been most helpful,"

For a fraction of a second, Harry tilted his head toward Tom and smiled almost imperceptibly.

And then he was gone, walking toward Gringotts - a colossal white building - without so much as a 'goodbye'; yet, Tom couldn't help but feel immensely pleased with himself for some inexplicable reason. The feeling wouldn't leave for the rest of the day.

As Harry passed a purple shop named 'Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions', he wondered if the people of Wizarding Britain realised the problems with the monopolization of banks. Most likely, the majority of Wizarding Britain were ignorant on the subject.

There was only one bank in Wizarding Britain, run by a magical race named 'Goblins'. Since time immemorial, both Wizard and Goblin kind were at each others throats. Social differences made peace almost impossible.

That was why allowing Goblins to control _any_ bank, never-mind the _only _bank in Wizarding Britain was utter foolishness in Harry's opinion. The Wizards at the time enabled the takeover for a good reason though; Goblins desired dominance over all, and giving them power was the only way to appease them._ 'It's odd though,' _Harry thought, switching his though process instantaneously,_ That Petunia remembers so much about the Wizarding World, considering she hates it,'_

As the white-haired boy climbed the marble steps to Gringotts Bank, he could not help but marvel at the architecture. It contrasted greatly with the rest of the alley, its gleaming white marble construction a light in the comparative darkness of the rest of Diagon - while the other buildings were variably coloured, darker hues dominated the magical centre.

Harry strode through the entrance to Gringotts, taking his time to tilt his head in the direction of the two Goblin guards flanking the burnished bronze doors. They nodded back. The pair were short, a mere three and a half feet, and covered from head to toe in scarlet and gold armour. Twin spears stood at their side.

As Harry gazed upon the interior of Gringotts, he could not help but compare it to the hall of a castle. That is, a castle full of accountants. A vast marble hall stretched out before him, expensive wooden counters spreading parallel to its walls. Multiple human-sized doors led off to what Harry could only assume were consultation rooms, amongst other things.

A single table stood apart from the others, its construction clearly superior to its counterparts. The Goblin that resided behind the counter appeared to be much older than his, for Harry assumed it's gender (judging by it's sizeable grey beard), colleagues.

'Wizard-Muggle Currency Conversion Counter' was engraved in elegant, if concise, golden font on the table on which the old Goblin sat behind.

_'I see,' _Harry glanced toward a Goblin holding a galleon,_ 'I wonder if they are pure gold, or are merely lined with gold. Or perhaps their core is made of gold?'_

As Harry made his way to the conversation counter, the white-haired boy decided that he would find out.

"Good morning," Harry greeted, while placing five hundred pounds upon the counter in front of him.

The Bearded Goblin eyed the money for a second before glancing back at Harry, "A fine morning it is," He replied in a polite, if nasally tone.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly; according to his aunt, Goblins were apparently very rude and barely tolerant of humans. The Bearded Goblin was not acting in accordance with stereotypical behaviour and all stereotypes had to start somewhere. _'Perhaps he mans the conversion counter because he's polite, and muggles would not be accustomed to a banker with a rude temperament?' _He theorized.

Banishing the stray thoughts from his head, Harry instead smiled and asked a question, "Are galleons actually made of gold, or are do they contain gold?"

Not looking up from his work, the Goblin answered, "Each galleon is lined with a thin layer of enchanted gold,"

Before Harry could respond, the Bearded Goblin swiftly placed multiple variations of coins upon the counter top. Large golden cylinders were the most plentiful, followed in size by slightly smaller silver coins and tiny bronze ones.

"One hundred galleons, six sickles and twenty three knuts," The Goblin waved his thin, bony hand in the general direction of the money before continuing, "For conversions of over one hundred galleons, you get a free enchanted bag," The small creature reached under the counter, bending so low his elongated nose almost touched the table-top, and pulled out a light brown leather bag which he placed on the counter, "Congratulations," The Bearded Goblin remarked dryly.

Harry's lips slipped into a smirk, "Thank you kindly," he simpered, somehow sounding both pleasant and sarcastic simultaneously.

The Goblin seemed to find this funny, for his own mouth twitched upward, showing a row of pointed teeth.

Harry glanced around, checking if anyone else wished to use the counter. Seeing no one, the blue-eyed boy asked a question that had been irritating him for a while, "I have noticed that Gringotts holds a monopoly over the banking system. What is Gringotts' opinion on any potential opposition?"

The Bearded Goblin leaned over the counter, his expression set in a grim line (as far as Harry could tell), "I speak for the entirety of Gringotts," The Goblin stated quietly but seriously, "That we, as a bank, would welcome an competition that the Ministry of Magic would allow. A _properly regulated_ competitive financial system would be a large boost to the economy,"

Harry locked eyes with the Goblin, "I see," The white-haired child smirked and measured his words, "Perhaps someday, the Ministry will allow such a progression?"

With a tilt of his head (in place of a farewell statement), Harry was already walking toward the exit, his coat swaying behind him. His gaze flicked down toward the drawstring bag in his hand; he could feel the magic enchanting the leather, stretching space inside the bag. The magic was weak; the enchantment would last a matter of days, but it would suffice for the moment.

As Harry was walking down the steps of Gringotts, he was considering his next move, _'Now, all I have to do is find a way to prove my heritage, and then I should be able to access more money,' _The bookshop 'Flourish and Blotts came into view, _'Ah, thank God for magic,'_

...

"Wait a moment," Harry muttered, "Did I just say 'thank _God _for magic'? What an absurd thing to say,"

* * *

Harry stared at a conical flask suspiciously. An unassuming burgundy red liquid was settled in it's bottom. It appeared so disarming in the twilight of his room in the Leaky Cauldron. This potion was the key to unlocking his vaults.

It was also illegal.

In the two days he'd been at Diagon Alley, he'd learnt of many facets of the Wizarding world. The lack of racism. The lack of sexism. The general absence of new age concepts ending in _ism_. The Wizarding world was not utopia though, (however, it could be argued that it was closer than the muggle world) instead of typical muggle prejudice, some wizards concentrated a large amount of their hatred on blood; or to be more specific, wizards with a lack of wizarding ancestry in their blood. Coupled with a superiority complex the size of a small moon, these 'blood-purists' were as hilarious as they were dangerous.

And they were very dangerous, as the wizarding government was a hereditary/elected split. Three guesses which families held hereditary seats. Harry had also come to realise that the wizarding government, the 'Wizengamot' was a joke. They'd banned _all _ritual magic. All of it. Whether it healed cancer or destroyed towns, it was all illegal.

Supposedly because it was 'dark'; whatever that meant. This was another stupid factor in the Wizarding world, a group of morons (influential morons, but morons all the same) decided that some spells (and some entire fields of wizardry) were 'dark'. What 'dark' actually _meant _was always incredibly vague; Harry had a suspicion that to some people, it meant whatever they didn't like.

The potion Harry was currently staring at was one of these 'dark' pieces of magic. Combined with a ritual, the potion would reveal all ancestors of the user in the time range of two thousand years.

The only problem with the potion was with its origins; it was dodgy, bought in Knockturn Alley (an offshoot of Diagon) for twenty galleons. It was also Harry's best chance at verifying his ancestry.

And so, he decided.

He drank it. Quickly and efficiently, the burning red liquid poured down his throat. Harry felt his magic buzz and flutter, analysing what he'd just consumed. All he could do now was wait and hope for his safety.

He waited. Five seconds past by without so much as a twitch.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

He was fine.

Deciding to continue on with the ritual, Harry drew his knife across his palm, wincing slightly as it cut into his pale skin. The crimson liquid dropped onto an enchanted piece of parchment that was spread across the floor.

Slowly, the blood began to shift across the page, gliding sluggishly in a manner not dissimilar to spilt ink.

The blood began to morph into recognizable shapes - into letters.

'Hadrian James Potter' was stencilled on the lowest rung of the forming family tree the red liquid was tracing. _'So, my name is Hadrian... interesting,' _Hadrian thought, simultaneously slamming down upon his anger. Being lied to about his name, even if only slightly, was irritating.

He looked up slightly.

'James Charlus Potter' was situated on the far left of the second tier. _'Dad,' _Hadrian smiled softly.

The name 'Lilith Asterope Potter nee Evans' was directly across from James' name.

_'An unusual name mum,' _Hadrian pondered,_ 'Perhaps you aren't as muggleborn as you thought,'_

Deciding he would trace his mo-. In shock, Harry dropped the flask he was holding. It smashed upon the polished wooden floor, thousands of tiny shards spreading about the room.

Hadrian ignored it.

Shock and surprise fluttered across his face, his jaw metaphorically on the floor.

The words 'Sirius Orion Black' were etched in bloody crimson letters, directly next to his mother.


	4. Chasing Leads

A Wizarding Story

Chasing Leads

* * *

I do not own Harry Potter

* * *

1987

Hadrian stared, expressionless, at a piece of parchment in his lap. Five minutes ago, his identity as a person - a mere week after he'd discovered his ancestry - irrevocably morphed into... well, he was now unsure as to who he was.

The seven-year old absently traced the thin line of blood - his blood - that connected 'Sirius Orion Black' with his own name. That single, bloody line altered _everything_.

It was impossible. Biologically, that is.

Three parents: James Charlus Potter, Lilith Asterope Potter nee Evans and Sirius Orion Black. The names floated around Hadrian's consciousness like a hurricane spinning around its central point.

While the fact that magic could be used to give a child _three _progenitors was fascinating, the implications in this context were... potentially disastrous to the the young geniuses perception of his parents. Every orphan desires a positive outlook on those who birthed them; Hadrian being no exception.

Even worse, one of his supposed 'parents' was responsible for the death of the other two. On Halloween night 1981, Sirius Black betrayed his 'best friend' and his 'wife' (God knows what they _actually _were) to the Dark Lord Voldemort. Voldemort would continue on to kill two of Hadrian's parents and then attempt to murder him. Or at least, that was the general perception of the public.

Considering the state of the Ministry of Magic, the real events of that fateful night were shrouded in mystery - at least for Hadrian. The general populace of the Wizarding World on the other hand, was painfully naïve and trusting; then again, they had been indoctrinated into their current sad state of openness throughout either their entire lives or as an impressionable young eleven year old.

The _Daily Prophet _being case in point. It was the _only _general purpose newspaper in Wizarding Britain; controlled by the government, it churned out propaganda at an alarming pace. Though Hadrian found its indecisiveness hilarious; one week it would be subtlety demonizing muggle-borns, the next the newspaper would flip its massive bias and praise muggle influences in magical culture.

Concepts such as 'objectivity' and 'balance' were unfortunately absent in Wizarding media; the government's monopoly on ideas had wretched creativity and progress from the hands of the people.

Snapping out of his inner rant, Hadrian remembered his original purpose. He shifted in his armchair, settling his gaze over his mothers name. The currently blue-eyed child pressed his finger on the words and, feeling the enchantment scan his thoughts (in a corner of his mind, he noted that if magical objects can invade thought-processes, people probably could too - and that there must be a defence for such magic), he focused upon a single name.

Salazar Slytherin.

Some time after his discovery of magic, Hadrian became aware of his ability to speak to snakes. This was widely known as a 'dark' ability (which, in this case, was just bigotry in Hadrian's opinion) because of its connection to Voldemort - another snake speaker, and Salazar Slytherin.

Famously one of the four wizards and witches responsible for the creation of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Salazar was now known as an ancestor to all those who could speak to snakes (the ability was actually called 'Parseltongue') and for being one of the most brutal 'dark' wizards in history.

The Potters were not descended from Slytherin; while the family could not really be considered historically 'light' (as _all _opposition to the 'dark' was called, irrespective of actual belief) because the family switched sides multiple times throughout the past centuries in the dark/light conflicts (although, the actual nature of these conflicts were foreign to Hadrian), there were no reports of a snake-speaking Potter. Ever.

This was also the case for the Black family, as far as Hadrian knew, though he'd only researched them because Sirius Black was listed (according to gosspers, anyway) as his godfather.

Therefore, by process of elimination, his 'muggle-born' mother must be descended from Salazar Slytherin.

"Ah," The exclamation was merely a whisper from Hadrian's mouth.

The bloody red lettering slowly began to morph, twisting and turning like a writhing snake. Letters began to form from the inky swirls of life-giving liquid. All at once, name became clear. 'Salazar Slytherin' was displayed, written in his own blood, across the parchment.

_'Just as expected,' _Hadrian thought. The white-haired genius frowned, tilting his head in thought, his nose scrunching up in a childish manner, _'I wonder who Lily Potter's mother was?'_

With a mere thought, the blood shifted once again. First to 'Lily Potter', and then to Alexia Gaunt nee... Black?

_"... W_hat_ the hell!"_ Hadrian hissed, his usual calm demeanour washing away like a sandcastle in the tide, _'Another Black? She doesn't even exist... wait, she does, but the last Black named Alexia was in the early 19th century...'_ The child's thoughts trailed off, "... Maybe she was abandoned?" He said to himself, "I suppose it doesn't matter, at least not yet,"

With another command, the blood once again rearranged itself. The name, 'Corvinus Gaunt' stood out in dark red lettering. _'My grandfather on my mothers side... I have never heard of that family... it sounds like a Wizarding name though...' _Hadrian pondered the latest revelation in silence,_ 'By process of elimination, my Slytherin ancestry must come from him,'_

Hadrian absently rubbed the back of his head, realizing that he should've waited and thought about Sirius Black instead; at least that was actually relevant to his immediate situation. Deciding to do just that, he folded the enchanted parchment into a more manageable size and slipped it inside his dark green robes. Hadrian lent forward, removing his journal from the desk in front of him. The white-haired boy flipped through its yellow pages, his eyes searching for the correct entry.

_'Ah. Sirius Black,' _

The journal was, among other things, a collection of all the data Hadrian had collected as a part of the magical world.

"Hmm," The young genius began to read his notes, "Best friends with my fa... James Potter, born into a traditionally dark family, became 'Secret Keeper' to the Potter's and subsequently betrayed them. Murdered Peter Pettigrew," His eyes narrowed, "Killed thirteen muggles in the same incident, and obliterated Pettigrew - only a finger remained of his body,"

Hadrian stared at the book for a few minutes, deep in thought.

"Odd," He spoke quietly to himself, "The entire situation hinges on Sirius being the 'Secret Keeper'," The genius child frowned and muttered, "Whatever the _hell _that is; nobody really knows beyond vague descriptions and assumptions,"

Leaning back again, Hadrian considered the situation in context. The only way Sirius could be a father with _two _other people was through magic; mostly likely of the complex and powerful kind. It was unlikely that Sirius was unaware of his fatherhood; the only way to remove such a recollection was through an 'obliviation' - a mind-manipulating magic. To remove such a substantial memory would most likely damage Sirius; it would also be fairly obvious that someone oblivated a memory from his mind.

_'Unless he opened his mind to the oblivation,'_

Hadrian shook his head, white hair swishing with the movement, there were too many unknown variables.

Whatever the context; Sirius Black could be innocent. Which, subsequently, meant that Peter Pettigrew was most likely alive; Hadrian doubted that there was a curse that would utterly destroy a human body, leaving only a finger behind.

Considering the state of the government, it was best assume, for the meantime, that he was. Proving his innocence would be another thing entirely.

"Well, I have to begin somewhere..." For a moment, Hadrian considered where to begin his hunt for the truth, "It isn't like I can question him; he's in Azka- that's it!" The young genius smiled and gripped his journal harder, "Azkaban. Sirius is in prison; I need more data to investigate - he must have had a trial,"

His smile waned into a grimace, as he realised an unfortunate fact, _'I can't access the records as a child; that is, if they even bother keeping detailed records,' _

An unfortunate truth was becoming clear, "... _**I **__need help_,"

This was spat like a curse. After years of relying on himself in just about every situation he came across in his day-to-day life, the need to rely on another was almost painful. But pride could not come before practically.

_'But who can help me?'_

No one. In the Magical World, Hadrian trusted exactly zero people. This paralleled the Muggle World. He had no parental figures, no siblings of any sort, and for now, no friends either. As the child began to ponder his circumstance, an unwelcome feeling built in his gut. An empty ache, an unfortunately familiar sensation that instantly lowered his spirits.

Hadrian's icy gaze flickered to his journal, before it settled upon the controlled fire that bathed the room in heat. The orange flames danced in the grit, casting an ominous, writhing shadow upon the sparse room. Hadrian was quite fond of the effect.

However, he was not staring at the beautiful, yet so dangerous, hues of the fire; a radiant amalgamation of reds, yellows and oranges. Instead, he saw - or to be more precise, imagined, _Black_. Not the colour, but the man. Ashen skin contrasted with dark hair - very familiar hair - and dark eyes. A strong, if feminine, facial structure glowed in the fire light.

A parental, calming smile turned on his lips.

"I'm almost there..." The words tumbled out of Hadrian's mouth, unattended, snapping him out of his trance.

He quickly turned away from the fire, an embarrassed blush spreading across his pale cheeks as he realised what he was imagining.

_'I can't believe I just thought of that,'_ Hadrian raged internally,_ 'He could be a murderer for all I know... Am I that desperate?'_

Sighing, he realised that parental daydreams would not help him stabilize or progress in his life. Hadrian needed the cooperation of an adult.

And the dark-haired child could find only a single suitable candidate, "... Remus Lupin,"

Hadrian measured the name, an ironically appropriate epithet, on his tongue. Remus Lupin was, according to his sources (which was, admittedly, gossip), a broken man. A friend of both James Potter and Sirius Black, his world had crumbled that fateful night seven years ago. It was likely he would be willing to give Sirius the... benefit of the doubt when the situation was explained to him.

The only problem was, rather predictably, finding him.

Fortunately, Remus Lupin was of particular character; in the sense that he was a sufferer of an infamous disease named Lycanthorpy. That would allow Hadrian to predict Lupin's movements, to an extent.

"To the Apocathory I go," The white-haired child muttered in disdain. He disliked such establishments; they stank like the neither regions of a mountain troll and were usually just as welcoming.

* * *

In the three thousand years of recorded Magical history, the role of Werewolves in society had always been a topic of great controversy. During different periods of history, the unfortunate souls plagued with the disease alternated between being worshipped, wielded as tools of war, hated, and barely tolerated. Nowadays, Werewolves were tolerated. Tolerated in the sense that they were shunned in society and discriminated against in Wizarding Parliament - the Wizengamot.

For most of Wizarding history, nothing (magical) could control a Werewolf when transformed; every full moon, a man would turn into an unnaturally large, magically fortified, bipedal wolf. The monster would then rage against all other lifeforms in the area. Thousands of people were killed in such unfortunate circumstances; others survived, but were cursed themselves.

However, in the winter of 1978, Damocles Belby invented the Wolfsbane potion; a liquid that, once drunk, allowed the consumer to retain their mental faculties during a full moon. It was heralded as the most significant magical creation since the invention of modern transfiguration. Which, considering the state of the Wizarding World, meant very little. Modern Transfiguration - the art of creation and transmorphiguration - was invented _three hundred years ago._

This piece of disconcerting information gave Hadrian a vague idea of how long ago the freedom and creativity of the Wizarding World was crushed. Three hundred years was a daunting amount of time for an entire people to be oppressed. Even worse, they appeared to be almost entirely unaware of their status. Hadrian doubted that the society that, by the 16th century, had already eradicated sexism, could become so inept naturally.

This meant that the current state of the Wizarding World was artificially created; for what reasons, Hadrian could only guess. The identity of those who socially engineered the stagnant culture was just as worrying.

Whatever group (assuming it was a group) masterminded the unknowing subjugation of the entire Wizarding World was both organised and insanely powerful. If they still existed, they were something to avoid gaining the attention of at all costs. Hopefully, the group had disbanded, leaving a few leaders to manage the continued obliviousness of the Wizarding population.

That would be a fantastic best case scen-.

A wall of slippery, semi-permeable magic wretched Hadrian from his thoughts. He was merely a dozen feet from his destination - Mr. Mulpeppers Apocathory.

He immediately recognized the magic as some form of silencing spell. Worryingly, the spell was set up in a dark alleyway that diverted off the main road. It could not be more suspicious.

Considering the situation, Hadrian glanced around. It was about six o'clock, and Diagon Alley appeared almost desolate in the early morning light. Not a soul was in sight, and all the shops had yet to open their doors. Originally, the white-haired boy had decided to monitor the Apocathory for any sign of Lupin.

_'I think I have time to... investigate,'_

His decision made, Hadrian crept into the mouth of the alleyway. The darkness was all engulfing, the beat of his rapidly increasing heartbeat and the slight scraping of his shoes as he glided across the stone path were the only audible sounds. He wished he could hold his active magical sensing up - it would allow him to feel his way in the dark even more effectively than all his other senses combined.

In the distance, humanoid shapes became visible. Hadrian was unsure if his eyes were finally adjusting to the dark, or they were merely extremely close. What mattered was the fact that one of the shapes was curled into a ball - not dissimilar to a hedgehog - while the other two rained down blows upon the unfortunate figure. Either they were muggles, or they did not want any spells to be traceable upon their wands.

Hadrian scowled darkly, evaluating the situation. His frosty eyes glanced around the alley, considering his options for attack and defence. Very little was visible, but what was pleased the snowy-haired child, for he grinned. Not a warm, inviting grin; a cold, sadistic smirk.

Suddenly and sharply, Hadrian leapt forward, passing through the silencing barrier with nary a sound. Faint whimpering became audible, as did the vulgar cursing of the two attackers. One was male, and the other female, Hadrian absently noted.

When the blue-eyed child was merely a few feet away from the two upright figures, he waved his hand in their direction, calling upon magic. A wooden plank, most likely discarded by the owner of the trunk shop next door, swiftly lifted itself into the air. It soared toward the male figure, smashing against the unknown man's wrist. The plank hit with such force that the physical impact drove his arm against the wall of the alley. The man screamed, but unfortunately for him, the spell he'd set up prevented the outside world from listening. The plank reared back and smashed itself against the man's head, surely knocking him unconscious.

The woman turned in panic, a red jet of light - a basic stunning spell - Hadrian noted, firing from her wand. The spell sped toward Hadrian, illuminating the alleyway in crimson as it travelled along its trajectory.

Hadrian just smirked and called upon magic once more. A levitating brick prevented the red spell from hitting its target. The very same brick then flew forward, crashing into the unknown woman's forehead. She crumpled immediately, and would no doubt suffer concussion when she awoke.

As the last body hit the floor, everything became silent. Only a few seconds had past since the plank first hit into the man. All Hadrian could hear was his rapidly beating heart, and the slight whistling of his breath. The short fight was constantly replaying in his mind, the sweet ecstasy of crushing his somewhat enemies with mere levitating spells felt better than anything he'd ever experienced - even the confrontation with the Dursleys.

He licked his lips in the dark, taking the time to savor his victory.

Pained groaning snapped Hadrian out of his adrenaline induced high. Remembering the original reason he fought, the genius child created a ball of light above his hand and peered at the only other conscious person in the area.

He, for it was most definitely a man, was almost completely covered by a shabby brown robe (now stained with blood), only his face being visible. Average-length, chestnut brown hair (tinged with threads of gray and crimson, Hadrian noted) shadowed amber-yellow eyes. His face was kind though slightly bloody, and both masculine and drawn simultaneously. It creating a rather odd effect, which, paired with unnatural yellow eyes, meant it could only be one person.

"Remus Lupin," Hadrian stated, his voice sounding even more solemn than normal in the alleyway.

The yellow-eyed man peered up at his saviour, his face set in to many emotions to truly distinguish. Confusion being chief among them; which was understandable, considering the fact that a pre-pubescent child just saved him for no reason using wandless magic (which Hadrian had learnt was quite a rare skill).

"I am," Lupin admitted, as is it were some great sin just to be him.

The man was tense, Hadrian noted, his eyes were darting around the area, occasionally settling on Hadrian - as if he expected to be attacked.

The blue-eyed genius grinned, which, in the dim light cast by the wandless _lumos_, appeared quite insane.

Lupin flinched and looked away.

"Good," Hadrian chirped in an upbeat tone, catching Lupin completely off-guard, "I've been looking for you for ages," He continued, lying with a smile that seemed strange on his pale features, "Knock on the door of room seven in The Leaky Cauldron in half an hour; I will answer," The child's royal blue eyes met Lupin's, "Okay?"

The entire one-sided conversation was spoken in a lighthearted tone, but Lupin could hear the hint of warning behind the words. He nodded in acquiesce to the command.

"Thanks,"

With that parting word, Hadrian swiftly turned and left the alley, looking no less dignified than he did when he entered. He was not afraid of Remus running and simply leaving; the man was honourable, and he owed him.

_'This was far more successful than I'd hoped,' _Hadrian mused as he walked back to the inn. He'd expected to have to scour half the Apocathory's in Britain, but instead his objective was completed a few minutes after setting out. Even better, Lupin was thankful to him for preventing a beating. An advantage, no matter how it was gained, was still useful.

Hadrian sat in his room, absently twirling a strand of hair through his fingers. The past half an hour had been spent reading and considering the outcomes of the future conversation with Remus Lupin. This conversation would, most likely, affect the next decade of his life. The Sirius problem wouldn't sort itself out.

The blue-eyed child leant back in his armchair, taking his eyes off the desk situated directly in front of him. A newspaper, opened to the central page, was splayed over the basic workspace. It was boring. Incredibly so.

The faint sounds of conversation were barely audible through the single window, the shops of Diagon having just opened fifteen minutes ago. The distant voices were actually quite calming to Hadrian's nerves. From such a distance, the cacophony of sounds were melodious to his ears.

Repeated rapping on the door interrupted his musings on the distant sounds. The knock was, in a word, average. Neither loud nor quite; not fast or slow. It repeated three times; not too many so as to appear impatient, not few enough to seem half-hearted.

_'That must be Remus,'_ Hadrian thought as he made his way to the door. He couldn't open it from his seat, after all. A sharp 'click' resounded in the room, indicating that the door was unlocked. A second later, the white-haired child pulled the door open; it glided seamlessly, as expected of a magical carved and enchanted object.

It revealed a wary faced Remus Lupin, looking an awful lot better than he did half an hour ago. No blood was visible on his person, and the brown cloak he wore appeared to be in pristine condition, though a simple charm cancelling spell - _finite _- would probably reverse that. It was just as Hadrian expected from an adult magical human.

The blue-eyed child titled his head forward slightly, "Good morning, Remus Lupin,"

The man was still tense, and most likely very confused, for he did not respond immediately; instead, he stared at the child in front of him, amber eyes filled with turmoil. Hadrian guessed that he often exhibited such an expression.

After an awkward moment, Lupin realised that he had yet to respond and, even more embarrassingly, he was staring.

"Ah... yes, good morning," He responded lamely.

Hadrian's lips twitched in amusement. He had a feeling that Lupin's socially awkward demeanour was not a product of his disease, but instead a natural component of his personality. Though, the lack of social interaction must have exacerbated the problem.

Ignoring the bumbling atmosphere, Hadrian stepped to the side and gestured to the chair visible from the hall, "Please, come in and sit down," His lips twisted slightly, "A conversation in the hall would be most impractical,"

Lupin looked at Hadrian as if he was a particularly troublesome puzzle, but nodded in acquiescence and replied, "Yes, I think it would be,"

The werewolf stepped inside the room, his eyes darting to the corners, most likely to look for threats. Hadrian found this odd; it wasn't normal werewolf behaviour. As a whole, they were social pariahs, but only because they were considered 'unemployable' by bigoted purebloods who owned practically all of the corporate wealth in Magical Europe (and most likely the entirety of the Magical World). Because of this, Werewolves were usually poor to the extent of vagrancy, which resulted in a lack of social prestige. But they weren't usually treated badly by the average person, which made Hadrian wonder why Lupin was so jumpy.

After shutting the door quietly, the white-haired child turned toward his guest and broke the silence once more, "Please, sit down, the sofa is free,"

Lupin glanced at Hadrian with a questioning gaze, before nodding, "Thank you,"

This was spoken simply, and as the amber-eyed werewolf sat down, but it was clear that he was not referring to the offer of seating. The two words were spoken with far too much gratitude for such a small kindness. In light of recent events, it was obvious why Lupin was thanking him.

Expecting such heartfelt words, Hadrian did not blush in embarrassment (as most attention starved children would've) nor even react beyond a small smile.

"It was no problem, Mr. Lupin," He replied graciously, but without overindulging modesty, "In fact," The child genius continued as he sat in an armchair across from his guest, "I've been looking for you for quite some time,"

A lie, but a white one. Designed flatter Remus and impeach upon his sense of guilt.

"Oh?" Lupin responded, his mouth pulling down into a frown, "Why would you be looking for me?"

Hadrian smiled slightly and glanced toward the coffee table in front of the sofa Remus was sitting on. A large tome, entitled 'The Rise and Downfall You-Know-Who' was stationed, facing toward the werewolf. The blue-eyed child's gaze brought the book to the attention of Remus. His expression morphed into one of confusion as he read the title.

"Well," Hadrian began in faux-shyness, "I was reading about the First Great Wizarding War and I noticed something... odd. Sirius Black," Lupin tensed at the name, and his expression altered into one of anger, "Was never even tried in a court of law,"

For a long moment, absolute silence reigned in the room. The distant chatter of the shoppers in Diagon seemed to cease; even the birds chirping outside the window stopped to listen. Or at least, the atmosphere was so tense it appeared as such.

"_What!_" Sound returned to the room with a strangled cry from Lupin. The man's eerie yellow eyes held a spark of hope in their depths.

"Well, I could find no mention of a trial in any newspaper, and everyone I ask fails to recall a trial," Hadrian clarified, "Considering that everyone remembers the trials of infamous suspected Death Eaters, it is very suspicious,"

Lupin swallowed nervously, his frown becoming more pronounced. Conflict was clear in his demeanour.

"That doesn't change the fact the he betrayed Lily and James," He replied, his voice wavering almost unnoticably.

Hadrian smirked,_ 'I have him now,' _

"True," The child genius agreed, "However... don't you think it's a little odd?"

Remus stared at Hadrian, confused as to what he was referring to.

"That Sirius Black somehow managed to destroy the entirety of Peter Pettigrew's body - and all his clothes - all aside from a finger," The white-haired child responded to the unanswered question.

Lupin's eyes grew wide at that, and he began true stare into space.

"You're right..." The werewolf replied, his voice distant. It was clear that he was replaying a memory in his head.

"Also, how does anyone even know that Black was the real 'Secret Keeper' to the Potter's? What if they attempted to outwit their pursuers?" Hadrian , adding another layer of doubt onto Remus' mind.

Lupin's eyes drew back into focus, and his face grew serious. The werewolf straightened in his seat, suddenly seeming quite imposing. His eyes were sharp, sharper than a surgeon's knife.

"Animagus," He spoke a single word calmly, and completely out of the blue.

Hadrian narrowed his eyes and raised a delicate eyebrow, "What is an 'Animagus'?"

Over the past weeks, the genius child researched an immense variation of topics in the Wizarding World, but that was not a term he was familiar with.

Remus smiled grimly and he sounded almost nostalgic as he spoke, "An Animagus is a Wizard or Witch that has learnt how to turn into an animal," His voice grew darker as he continued, "And Peter Pettigrew _was_... _is _one,"


End file.
